


the moments between

by IceEckos12



Series: jon and gerry versus the world [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Appendicitis, Bullying, Daemons, Hospitals, M/M, Mentions of Mary, References to Terminal Illness, Soulmates, deleted scenes and extra snippets from mere monstrosity and quiet steps, implied child neglect, reference to past terminal illness, self worth issues, temporary amnesia from anesthetics, when your soulmate's first words to you are "don't try to run" you tend to worry, will tag as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27151229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IceEckos12/pseuds/IceEckos12
Summary: All the little extra moments that didn't make it into Mere Monstrosity or quiet steps away from you lead.1. A scene from Mere Monstrosity, from Gerry's perspective.2. From day 1 of tma's hurt comfort week. prompt, shaky hands.3. jongerry vs the world, soulmate au remix.4. jon wakes up from surgery to find a strange man holding his hand.5. A scene from Quiet Steps, from gerry's perspective.6. Daemon au remix, from tim's perspective.7. a gentle moment from quiet steps.8. jon's used to people losing interest in what he has to say.9. another scene from Mere Monstrosity, from gerry's perspective.
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: jon and gerry versus the world [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688725
Comments: 44
Kudos: 212





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!!
> 
> I've been writing some extra content for jongerry vs the world on tumblr, and realized that i should probably put it on ao3 as well. I probably wont be updating this too regularly, though.
> 
> I'll be tagging as I add new chapters, but if you see that something is improperly tagged then please let me know so I can fix it!

Gerry wasn’t entirely sure what to think of Jon.

Well—no, okay, he knew _exactly_ what he thought of Jon. The kid was a bit of a know it all, fussy over precise terminology and factual continuity. Jon _always_ noticed if Gerry contradicted himself, which was deeply frustrating, as by nature the supernatural was contradictory.

More than that, though, Jon was clearly in over his head, living out some self-indulgent fantasy of being special, or whatever. He wanted to get involved in a world that he didn’t understand in the slightest, and the second things got real, he would get spooked and bolt.

Jon was _normal._ He went to a school, he probably had friends, loving parents, a whole _world_ that Gerry had only ever seen from the outside looking in. Soon he would figure out that it was better to be safe, and would leave.

Gerry couldn’t afford to get attached to someone like that.

In the meantime though, Gerry would entertain Jon’s little fantasy to keep him from getting hurt.

He leaned against the rock wall in front of Jon’s school, shoving his hands deep into his pockets to keep them from fidgeting. He normally wouldn’t have come here—he hated the crowds—but Mary was expecting him home early tonight, and he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

Gerry tensed up as students began streaming from the gates of the school in droves, feeling as though he was about to drown in their incessant chatter. Luckily, he was given a wide berth, apparently intimidating enough to overcome their curiosity. He gritted his teeth and looked over the crowds, trying to pick out the unruly mop of silver-streaked black hair that belonged to Jon.

He frowned when he realized that Jon was nowhere to be seen. Maybe Gerry had missed him, but…no, he would have known. Where was he?

“Oh my god, there he is.”

A titter. “What a little crybaby!”

Gerry frowned, ignoring the whispers. And then someone shouted, “Hey, look! It’s Jonny!” and his head jerked up reflexively.

Jon was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, horror plain in his dark, red-rimmed eyes. He looked so small, more vulnerable than Gerry remembered, his shoulders bent, his hair dried in sticky clumps over his forehead. He held Gerry’s gaze for just one second, before looking down, his face darkening with a flush of embarrassment.

_Oh._

Gerry felt some protective instinct surge from within him, almost stealing his breath away. He hadn’t thought–he hadn’t _realized–_

He pushed away from the wall, ignoring the cruel jeers of the classmates around him, and made a beeline toward the small, lonely figure frozen in the middle of the sidewalk. The closer he got, the wider the pit in his stomach opened.

He stepped in front of Jon, glaring ferociously over his shoulder. The bullies all froze, gaping, and he sneered. _Cowards._

“Gerry?” Jon’s voice was tiny and ragged, and Gerry’s heart clenched.

“Come on, Jon,” he responded brusquely, wanting nothing more than to get Jon away from here.

There was a pause, and then, unexpectedly, Jon shuffled forward, closer into Gerry’s space. He looked down, puzzled, before realizing that Jon was–Jon wanted to be comforted.

He was coming to Gerry for _comfort,_ and some protective instinct that he didn’t know he had roared to life within him. He’d never….he’d only ever been good for tracking down Leitners, but–but Jon trusted him. Jon, who had obviously been treated cruelly by his classmates, trusted _Gerry._ That fragile, precious faith made him want to raises his fists to the bullies, made him want to shout at Mary _, see! See, I’m not just your tool, your instrument!_

Instead, he laid his arm over Jon’s shoulders, letting him press close. And then Gerry lead him away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was from day1 of the tma hurt/comfort week. prompt was "shaky hands". post quiet steps.

Gerry’s hands still shake sometimes.

They don’t shake everyday, and it’s not always obvious. He’ll be sitting on the couch, warm and calm and comfortable, Jon at his elbow, and reach for his cup of coffee only to notice that the liquid is trembling finely.

It’s not even the worst of the lingering effects of his brain cancer. Some days he wakes up, and it’s all he can do to lie in bed, feeling a million miles away from himself. Some days his words trip over themselves, and when he tries to put them in some semblance of order, they won’t cooperate. And those are bad, yes, but he always notices them. He can work around them.

His hands, though—they frighten him more than he cares to admit. Because what if he needs to protect Jon, and his hands falter? He doesn’t know when it will happen, he doesn’t always notice it happening, so how can he prepare for it?

It’s silly. He knows it’s silly, Jon is perfectly capable of protecting himself. Jon has been dealing for the supernatural almost as long as he has, and has survived until now because of more than luck. It doesn’t stop the terror from stealing his breath away whenever he lifts his hand and sees the unsteadiness there, the unreliability.

He cannot become a liability. He knows what happens to people like that, who recklessly throw themselves into the supernatural without knowing their own capabilities.

He knows what happens to their loved ones.

“Hey,” Jon says, and the couch cushion creaks as he sits. Gerry’s not sure if it’s the Beholding that warned him of Jon’s presence or if he just subconsciously knew, but he’s grateful for it either way. “Something on your mind?”

“No,” Gerry sets the cup of coffee on the battered table in front of him. “Nothing of import.”

Jon hums, a dubious noise that catches and sticks somewhere in his throat. “You sure? You were giving that coffee an…intense look.”

Normally Gerry would say something funny, make a quip that would curl the edge of Jon’s mouth, but he can’t bring himself to. Instead he shrugs, reaching out and folding their fingers together, willing for Jon to understand even when he can’t bring himself to speak.

Jon’s eyebrows furrow, and he gently squeezes Gerry’s hand, seeing that something is amiss but unable to ascertain out its source. He glances over at the coffee mug, then at Gerry’s hand, then back to the coffee mug—and his eyes widen. He reaches over and takes Gerry’s other hand, holding them in front of him, studying the pale skin.

“They’re shaking,” he murmurs after a moment, distress plain on his face, and strokes his thumbs over the roughened knuckles like that will be enough to make it stop.

Gerry lets out a quiet sigh and rests his head against the couch, before humming an agreement.

Jon glances up at him from underneath his eyelashes—a habit that Gerry hasn’t told him about, because if he’s aware of it then he’ll stop. His eyes linger on Gerry’s, and he knows that Jon is checking for tension or any sign of headache. He takes the opportunity to stare back, to take in all the little details of Jon’s face.

Then Jon lifts Gerry’s hands and places a gentle kiss on the back of each, his lips warm and dry. It feels like the touch lingers even after he pulls away, like a permanent mark.

“I love you,” Jon says, turning Gerry’s hands over and brushing a light, burning kiss over one palm, then the other. “This doesn’t matter.”

“I can’t protect you like I used to,” Gerry tells him, once more willing for Jon to understand.

“No,” Jon says, an acknowledgement that strikes like a lance in Gerry’s heart. It’s the first time Jon has admitted it out loud, and it feels like the end of something. Or maybe the beginning “I don’t care.”

He pulls Jon to him then, breathing the calming scent of his hair oil, feeling the slight line of his back. Gerry’s hands shake even as they hold on, and they breathe together, and breathe, and breathe.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jongerry vs the world, soulmate au remix.

The words “Don’t try to run” have been tattooed on the inside of Jon’s forearm for his entire life.

It was just another thing for his classmates to make fun of him for, another reason for the adults to look at him with thinly-veiled pity. He...he got it. He didn’t like it, but he understood. The soulmate whose first words to you were “don’t try to run” were usually not the kind of people you wanted to be soulmates with. His curfew had been 5pm for as long as he had been alive, and he tried to avoid going down side alleys when he was alone.

He was...usually always alone.

But it...it didn’t really matter, did it? Some people went their entire lives without finding their soulmates and were perfectly happy. Jon’s parents hadn’t been soulmates, and his grandmother often reassured him that yes, they were a good match, a happy match, who loved him very much.

That was what he told himself while his peers giggled over their soulmarks, when he walked through the halls and felt the yawning distance between him and the rest of the world. 

He wondered sometimes, what kind of soul he must have to warrant a match that was probably going to kidnap or murder him at some point. He obsessively researched infamous serial killers, their lesser known other halves, trying to figure out if the shape of their souls matched his. Trying to figure out if he was destined to cause or become a victim to great evil, the way his classmates liked to tell him he would.

(When he was lonely, though—when it was all he could do to curl up in bed, and trace the haphazard scrawl permanently etched into his skin—he would wonder. Wonder if—if maybe he was wrong, if everyone was wrong. Maybe his soulmate was kind and trying to—to protect him somehow. Maybe his soulmate would love him, would try to understand him, and…)

He usually just tried not to think about it. If he found his soulmate, then he found his soulmate. If he didn’t, well. That was another day he avoided a possible grisly, horrific fate. Besides, he had other things to do, like look for Leitners.

So he did. He looked for Leitners and wore long sleeves when it was warm out and carried a knife in his bag, just in case.

Just in case.

So when someone grabbed his arm and hissed, “Don’t try to run,” as he stepped into that bookstore, he felt his heart leap into his throat, felt a heady rush of terror and anticipation. Because—this could be his soulmate, his other half, the person he was destined to be with, and he was so scared, _so—_

* * *

The words, “You’re just a teenager” had been etched across Gerry’s shoulders his entire life.

He didn’t even realize he had a soulmark at first. Mary had gotten hers removed well before his birth, and she wasn’t the sort of person to bring up social conventions she didn’t approve of.

His first indication that there was something more, that there was something out there as supernatural as the entities but kind and just and fair— was when he was seven years old. Ensconced in a little hideaway with his pilfered library book, he felt as though his entire world had just shifted a few degrees on its axis at the descriptions of the cosmic bonds between one soul and another.

For a while afterward, he spent hours in front of the bathroom mirror, craning his neck into uncomfortable positions to try and get a better look at the other half of his soul’s handwriting. He dreamed of a warm hand in his, of whispering secrets into an attentive ear, of someone who loved and trusted him without expecting anything in return.

But then he grew up, as all people must do. He looked over his shoulder, and the words became another shackle, another weight on his soul. Because—Mary was his blood tie, wasn’t she? His mother. And she’d never loved him the way mums in books loved their children, so why would a soulmate be any different?

And besides, chances were that the other half of his soul was someone normal, someone mundane. They would probably react as every other normal person did when confronted with the supernatural (with him)—fear, horror. Since when was anything in this world kind? The presence of soulmates did nothing to blot out the rancid stain of the fear entities on this world. They meant nothing in comparison to that.

“You’re just a teenager.” He would meet his soulmate when he was young, then. He just had to avoid them for ten or so years, and then he could move on with his life. He could stop worrying about someone that he’d never met before.

(How cruel, that someone was inexorably bound to someone like him. What was kind or just or fair about that?)

He briefly entertained the idea of removing his soulmark, but decided against it. It wasn’t like he could see it, anyway. He usually just tried not to think about it, lost himself in finding and bringing back Leitners for a moment of his mum’s approval.

He was not expecting for the boy he’d grabbed onto, the one with black hair streaked with fine veins of silver, to turn around and blurt, “You’re just a teenager.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon wakes up from surgery, and there's a strange man holding his hand. he's not too broken up about this turn of events, though. after all, the man is very pretty.

Gerry woke in the middle of the night to Jon shaking his shoulder.

“Mmn?” Gerry garbled, surfacing from the warm, comfortable embrace of sleep.

“Gerry,” Jon whispered.

Gerry mentally paused and frowned at Jon’s tone. There was something off about it, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, that cut through his disorientation like a knife. He rubbed at the sleep in his eyes, trying to make out Jon’s face in the darkness. “J’n?”

Jon audibly swallowed, and a clammy hand wrapped around Gerry’s wrist. “I think something’s wrong.”

Gerry pushed upright, a cold pit of dread opening up in his stomach, chasing the last dregs of the fuzziness away. Jon’s hand fell to the covers and then curled in the blankets, and Gerry’s eyes finally adjusted to the gloom, letting him see just enough to be _really alarmed._

Jon’s forehead was covered with a light sheen, hair sticking to his unusually sallow skin, washed out all the more by the weak moonlight pouring in through the window. There was a desperate, helpless brightness to his eyes, a telling glimpse of whatever was going on just beneath the surface. His free hand was wrapped loosely around his stomach, shoulders hunched, posture protective and afraid all at once.

Gerry’s heart was beating a hard, harsh staccato in his throat, and when he brushed his hand across Jon’s forehead, he almost flinched back at the heat. “What’s wrong?”

“I, um—” Jon abruptly broke off, his eyes going hazy, shoulders tightening briefly. Gerry stared at him, bewildered—and suddenly realized that whatever was going on, Jon was in pain. Then the moment passed, and he choked out, “My stomach. It—it hurts.”

“Okay,” Gerry said, mind kicking into high gear. He gently pushed Jon’s hand away from his stomach and pressed down, trying to feel for anything abnormal. “How bad?”

Jon opened his mouth to respond, but the second Gerry released pressure, his eyes went wide and he made an awful, choked off noise. Distressed and growing more fearful by the second, Gerry reached out and helplessly smoothed his thumb along Jon’s cheekbone. Jon curled against him, limbs trembling finely, a too small, too vulnerable ball in Gerry’s arms.

“Okay,” Gerry said, with as much calm authority he could muster. “You’re going to the hospital.”

* * *

Several hours later, Gerry was folded up in the chair next to Jon’s hospital bed, holding Jon’s hand in his. Jon was so still beneath the linens, his eyes set deep in the hollows of his sockets.

He rubbed at his gritty, burning eyes, exhausted in a way that he hadn’t been for years. After everything that he and Jon had been through, all the monsters they’d encountered, he’d never expected for one of them to be taken out by _fucking appendicitis._

They’d gotten Jon to the hospital just in time, too. The doctor had told him that a couple of hours longer and the stupid, vestigial organ would’ve exploded. It wasn’t a death sentence necessarily, but apparently chances of survival decreased significantly after it burst.

Honestly though, by the end Jon had been in so much pain that Gerry hadn’t cared about anything other than immediately getting rid of the source. He could still see Jon’s hand white-knuckling the bed rail as they wheeled him off for surgery.

He’d hated it then, hated it now. He could fight the supernatural; he couldn’t prevent Jon’s body from turning against him.

He was distracted from his musings by the faint stirring of Jon’s fingers, by the rapid flutter of Jon’s eyelashes. He scooted his chair forward and pressed a kiss against Jon’s knuckles, rubbing comfortingly with his thumb as his partner woke.

Finally, painstakingly, Jon’s eyes flickered all the way open. He observed the room around him, gaze fuzzy and distant with anesthetics, before sluggishly turning his head to look at Gerry. His eyes went wide as he drank in Gerry’s face, then impossibly wider as he spotted the tattooed hand holding his.

“Hey,” Gerry whispered, “How’re you feeling?”

Jon didn’t respond immediately, still staring at their joined hands. He was blinking very rapidly, as though he wasn’t quite sure of what he was seeing.

Gerry frowned. “Jon?”

“You’re holding my hand,” Jon blurted, and then his mouth fell shut with a click.

“I—” Gerry raised an eyebrow. “Yes? I do that sometimes.”

“Do you?” The end of Jon’s voice escaped as a shy, incredulous squeak.

There was a burgeoning suspicion in Gerry’s mind. The nurse had warned him that Jon might be disoriented, might have temporary amnesia, just after he woke up. “Jon,” he began slowly. “Do you know who I am?”

Jon shook his head rapidly, eyes moonlike and endearing. He tried to move his arm, but was almost immediately distracted by the fact that he was still holding Gerry’s hand.

Gerry raised an uncertain eyebrow, amused despite himself. “Do you want me to stop holding your hand?”

Jon shook his head so quickly that Gerry almost winced in sympathy. Then he said, “I don’t mind that you’re holding my hand. You’re very pretty.”

Gerry fought down the flush that threatened to stain his cheeks, his smile widening with disbelief and wonder. “Am I?”

Jon nodded. “Very.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Mmmm.” Jon’s eyes flickered down to their joined hands again, as though still unable to believe his good luck.

Oh, this was just precious. “Want to know something else?”

Jon’s gaze jerked up and met his. “Yes?”

Gerry glanced around furtively, as though he was preparing to share some important, clandestine secret. Then he leaned forward and said in an undertone, “We’re dating.”

The reaction was immediate and gratifying. Jon’s jaw loosened, and his eyebrows flew up toward his hairline in scandalized shock. “No. Really? But you have tattoos!”

Gerry laughed, helplessly charmed. Jon had been there the first time he’d gone to the tattoo parlor, face twisted into a determined yet faintly squeamish grimace. “It’s true. You’re dating me, tattoos and all.”

“My gran must hate you,” Jon gasped. He wavered for a moment, expression flip-flopping between uncertain and thoughtful, before finally settling on smugly satisfied. _“Wonderful.”_

Gerry leaned forward and pressed his forehead against Jon’s knuckles, laughing helplessly, relaxing for the first time since Jon had first woken him up. If Jon was feeling well enough to get excited about offending his gran’s delicate sensibilities, then he was going to be just fine.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a scene from quiet steps, from gerry's perspective. mentions of mary.

Gerry woke up on the floor of his and Jon’s living room, bathed in darkness, his mind clear for the first time in _weeks._

He sat up and shoved the blanket covering him aside, groaning softly at the ache in his muscles, swaying at the vertigo that threatened to topple him back onto the carpet. His mouth was dry as a desert, and a light headache pulsed at his temples, signaling dehydration. It made sense - he didn’t think that Mary had let him - that Mary -

He lurched to his feet, using the couch to steady himself as he rose. His legs were shaking, and every breath scraped up from the base of his throat, but - but she was gone.

Mary was gone.

He wasn’t sure how he Knew that, but he did. Last thing he remembered, he’d collapsed on their doorstep, the heavy weight of her curse in his pocket, and now he was here, inside, and she was _gone._ Not just gone as in back inside the book, but gone from the flat. He felt her absence just as intensely as he felt her presence, like a gaping void in his soul.

Jon must’ve done something with it. Jon must’ve....

Fuck. _Jon._

Gerry stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the water as hot as it would go. He pressed his shaking, freezing fingers under the spray, but they weren’t warming up. _They weren’t warming up,_ they were just as cold and numb as they’d been...for how long? How long had he been gone?

Jon must’ve been frantic.

He stared down at his fingers, at the way they trembled, before fumbling with the tap to turn off the water. He was still freezing, the chill seeming to have sunk through his skin, right into his marrow.

He heard a quiet rustle from the living room, followed by the sharp intake of air, and immediately turned and stepped into the doorway of the bathroom. Jon was in the process of unfurling from against the wall, his eyes wide and wild and dark, gaze searching frantically over the room in front of him. He hadn’t even realized that Jon was there - had he just fallen asleep against the wall, waiting for Gerry to wake up?

“Jon,” Gerry rasped.

Jon’s head jerked toward him, and his eyes went wide. He rose so quickly that Gerry almost winced with sympathy, and made a direct beeline toward him. “Gerry.”

“ _Stop.”_ Gerry held up a hand to stop Jon from getting any closer. He felt - he still felt freezing, and Mary was _gone,_ and everything - everything was wrong. Everything was _wrong,_ and his skin felt like a raw, exposed nerve ending, and _what had Jon done?_

Jon froze, his eyes wide and confused, body fairly thrumming with energy.

He took a step forward. “What did you do?”

Jon swallowed, his gaze darting from Gerry to nothing to Gerry again. “What do you mean?”

“What did you _do,_ Jon?” He took a step closer, silently begging for Jon to tell him the truth, because - he didn’t get this. He didn’t get Jon without Mary, he didn’t get to be happy without strings attached. _That wasn’t his life._ Mary had been a horrible, looming presence for as long as he’d been alive, and there was no way he could’ve gotten rid of her without paying some horrible price in return. Which meant - “What did you give up for me, Jon? What the _hell_ did you do?”

Jon hesitated, his expression going from confused to understanding to sad all in the span of a couple of seconds. He took a careful step forward and said, as though trying not to startle a wild animal, “I didn’t give up anything. I—I went to the Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute for help. I just had to give a statement, nothing more.”

Gerry wavered, fragile hope tickling at the edges of his mind. “And she said she would help.”

“She has the book now,” Jon confirmed, taking that final step into Gerry’s space, curling their fingers together. Gerry gasped at how warm Jon was, at how intense the contact was after a week of numbness, of nothingness. “She said that she could help.”

No, that - that wasn’t Gerry’s life, his luck. That was - no. It couldn’t be, it -

Gerry let out a quiet, horrible noise, and when Jon opened his arms, he fell into them, feeling bereft and empty and _warm_ all at once. That fragile hope sparked to life, roaring into an inferno, and for the first time he let himself think -

_Maybe this time, it really is that easy._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> daemon remix

To people who know Jon and know nothing about dog breeds, Anastasia is usually pretty confusing.

She’s an elegant dog, that’s for certain. Her head is a dark, rich brown, which melts into cream and tan fur. Her tail curls up and over the line of her back, her powerful haunches, and she’s so fluffy that she looks a bit like a stuffed animal. She’s dignified for a dog, sits quietly at Jon’s feet whenever he’s working, hardly ever barks or makes noise.

But she’s still a _dog._ And dog daemons belong to people who’re loyal, who like to be around other people. (The unkind would also remark that dog daemons tend to belong to people who’re gullible, who’re quick to fall into line.)

Tim knows better than to judge people based on their daemons. Owls are symbols of wisdom sure, but they’re also dumb as fuck. Squirrels are seen as annoying or hyperactive, but they’re actually deeply intelligent, solitary creatures. Tim’s often labeled as sly or untrustworthy due to Mirabelle, his fox daemon, when he’s anything but. So yeah, he knows better than to make snap judgements about people’s personalities from their daemons.

But more and more, Tim finds himself scratching his head over Jon’s daemon. The man’s prickly, suspicious of friendly overtures, and always seems to be on edge for one reason or another. Anastasia is the same way, politely but coldly rebuffing Mirabelle’s attempts at conversation.

He doesn’t care _that_ much - it’s not really his business, after all - but still, it’s always at the back of his mind, like a vertebrae sitting just slightly off center. Even when they become friends of a sort, there’s that same confusion, that same puzzlement that he never quite feels comfortable enough to ask about.

It’s not until several years later, when Jon becomes the Head Archivist, that he finally understands.

Because Tim glances around the corner, curious as to who Jon could be talking to, and his jaw almost drops at the sight of Anastasia cuddling up to a small, brightly colored cat daemon, her tail wagging rapidly in excitement. The man she belongs to is tall, goth, and handsome, and Jon is _smiling_ in a relaxed, happy way that Tim has never seen before.

Jon says something, and the other man laughs, Anastasia lets out a loud, excited yip and sits back into her haunches, batting playfully at the cat, who darts just out of reach. It’s the most doglike Tim has ever seen Anastasia act in the five years he’s known Jon.

Later, he gets home and finally goes looking for what, exactly, Anastasia is. She’s almost a perfect match for an Akita, and Tim almost laughs out loud when he reads the description, because _of course._ Everything suddenly makes perfect sense.

_Akitas are quiet, fastidious dogs. Wary of strangers and often intolerant of other animals, Akitas will gladly share their silly, affectionate side with family and friends._


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a moment from quiet steps. warnings for mentions of cancer

“Hey, Gerry.”

Gerry paused the cat video he’d been watching and looked up. Jon was hovering in the doorway of their room, his hand resting lightly on the frame, chewing his lip. There was a note of uncertainty in his posture that made Gerry frown, that made him half-way close the computer and set it to one side. “Yes, Jon?”

Jon immediately shook his head. “No, I - sorry, it’s nothing bad. I’ve just been thinking...”

Gerry quirked a curious eyebrow. “Dangerous thing, that.”

That little quip finally broke through whatever was making Jon so nervous; he rolled his eyes and made his way over to the bed. Gerry immediately shifted so that Jon could curl up in his arms, could rest his head on Gerry’s shoulder. They leaned back against the headrest, and Gerry pressed his cheek to the top of Jon’s head, breathing in the light fragrance wafting from his hair.

They sat there for a moment, taking comfort in each other’s presence. Every moment like this felt that much more precious ever since....well. Ever since.

“We haven’t ever gone on a proper date before, have we?”

Gerry roused himself from his musings at the sound of Jon’s voice. “Um - sorry, what?”

“I just...” Jon shook his head, frowning. “We’ve been together for, um...I was sixteen, so you would’ve been eighteen...”

“Eleven years,” Gerry said.

Jon hummed an agreement. “I was just thinking....I mean, we don’t really go on _dates,_ do we? Like, a fancy dinner, or, or a movie, or...”

“What, burning Leitners isn’t romantic enough for you?” Gerry playfully squeezed Jon’s shoulders, even as his thoughts strayed backward, trying to remember if what he said was true. They were together _all the time,_ surely they’d...

“Oh _hush,_ you,” Jon batted at his shoulder.

“You’re right, though,” Gerry said, frowning at the realization.

There was a brief pause as Jon settled back in, his bony knees pressed against Gerry’s thighs. He was all sharp angles and harsh lines and so very, very dear.

“...do you want to?” Jon asked softly. “Go on a date, I mean.”

“Oh.” Gerry thought about that for a moment. Thought about doing regular couple things, about kissing in the dark of a movie theater, about paying too much for a fancy meal. It sounded nice, sure, but not really _them._ “Um....I mean _,_ I’m not really....if you want to, of course I’d want to, too. But it just - look, what is this about?”

Jon shifted, his eyes flicking down and away. “Does it have to be about something?”

“We’ve been dating for eleven years and this has never bothered you before,” Gerry pointed out. “Why’s it bothering you now?”

Jon let out a quiet huff. Gerry knew that sound; it meant that Jon was annoyed that he’d figured out that there was an ulterior motivation behind his line of questioning. It wasn’t that hard to suss out, though; Jon was the type to approach things indirectly, like he was worried that people would get annoyed if he vocalized what was actually troubling him.

Finally Jon said, voice small and achingly vulnerable in the dark, “I just....I was just thinking....what if we never get to do it?”

Gerry paused, his breath stuttering in his throat. Oh, _Jon._

“If....if you.....” Jon took a deep breath, pressed his nose against Gerry’s shoulder. “You know. I just....thought that, that we should do everything now. Just in case.”

Gerry buried his face into Jon’s hair, and Jon clutched back at him, and for a moment they just sat there, breathing under the crushing weight of that horrible possibility. Of the thought of a world where Gerry was gone and Jon had to live with all the things that they hadn’t done together.

Gerry was powerless to prevent that future, and he hated it. He _hated_ it, this illness that wormed its way into his head.

“It’s going to be okay,” he told Jon, like if he said it enough, it would eventually become true.

(He knew it wasn’t true, nothing was ever going to be okay about this.)

There was one concrete fact that would always be true though, and that was: “I love you.”

Jon nodded, and Gerry felt Jon’s lips moving against his arm, silently echoing the words back.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon's used to people losing interest in what he has to say.

Jon was used to people losing interest in what he had to say.

It was an old hurt, a wound that’d opened and reopened so many times that the ache had become something mundane, something he could ignore. Nowadays he tried to catch himself, but it wasn’t always easy to tell when he was gearing up to drop a load of useless information on another person.

He’d been so careful around Gerry, though. Their friendship was a fragile, tenuous thing, and Jon didn’t want to do anything to mess it up, which meant he had to keep his excessive monologuing to himself. He was terrified that if he was too annoying, Gerry would clam up, start treating him like an unwanted add-on again.

(He couldn’t bear for Gerry to look at him with the same derisive contempt that his peers did.)

He wasn’t thinking about that, however, as he stared down at the paragraph that detailed the creation of black holes. Gerry was somewhere in the library looking for evidence that a Leitner had been here, and Jon was curled up in one of the many bean bag chairs strewn around the room, immersed in the nebulous reaches of the universe.

Jon had always liked space, but he’d come to appreciate it even more after he learned about the supernatural. There were certainly parallels - incomprehensible, vast, potentially dangerous - but that was where the similarities ended. Space lacked the malicious intent of the entities; it was pure and scientific, and the breadth of its mystery wasn’t liable to hurt those who wanted to know more about it.

“What’re you looking at?”

Jon almost jumped at Gerry’s voice, but didn’t look up. “Black holes.”

There was a pause, and then, “What about them?”

“They’re the climax of a star’s life,” Jon explained, rubbing the corner of the page between his fingertips. “But not just _any_ star’s life. Littler stars like the sun become red giants, then eject interstellar material and become white dwarfs. Big ones though - the core becomes iron and shrinks, and then explodes.” He made a little exploding gesture with one hand to demonstrate. “That’s a supernova. But then, the core can either become a neutron star or a black hole. It’s honestly a little disappointing that the sun won’t eventually become a black hole, I think that would....”

He froze, suddenly realizing that Gerry probably...didn’t care about stars or black holes or whatever. They were here to research a Leitner, they were here on _business._ And here Jon was...

Gerry was smiling at him.

Jon suddenly wondered if Gerry was making fun of him. “What?” he asked, voice snappish.

Gerry shook his head and raised his hands placatingly. “Nothing, it’s just....it’s cool.”

Jon’s head jerked up, and he peered at Gerry through the curtain of his bangs. Gerry wasn’t the type to make big, emotional proclamations, so “it’s cool” was as good as an enthusiastic compliment. “You think so?”

Gerry nodded, shoving his hands casually into his pockets. “I wouldn’t mind if you told me more about it.”

Jon smiled at that, almost giddy with delight. “Okay, well....”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another scene from mere monstrosity, from gerry's perspective.

Gerry loved Jon.

-0-

The thing was, growing up, affection was always a transaction or a battle. Gerry would have to claw and fight for each scrap of approval, for each modicum of his mother’s regard. And even when he did get it, it was never easy, or kind, or long-lasting. He would hand his mother a Leitner, and she might smile at him for one exultant moment, before her interest slid unerringly away again.

And the cycle would repeat again.

He never understood why there were so many songs and books and TV shows about love. Why were people so eager to write about something that took and took and took and never gave anything in return? That tied one to another in the cruelest of ways?

Gerry wanted nothing to do with love.

-0-

Being friends with Jon didn’t come naturally to Gerry.

Jon was everything Mary wasn’t; sensitive to changing moods, innocently inquisitive, attentive to direction. But more than that, more than anything, he _cared._ He cared so intensely that it scared Gerry sometimes.

Gerry had never cared about anything the way Jon seemed to about nothing and everything all at once. In all his years working as Mary’s glorified errand boy, it’d never occurred to him to try and soften the sharp, dangerous edges of the supernatural world for others. But Jon, endearingly earnest, painfully awkward, worried about the victims, worried about protecting them. (The very antithesis of Mary.)

It made Gerry want to do better. It made Gerry want to _be_ better.

-0-

Gerry loved Jon.

This was no surprise; Gerry wasn’t sure when it’d first happened, but when he’d realized, all he’d been able to think was, _ah._ Because Jon had shown Gerry that affection could be gentle instead of sharp, that it didn’t have to be won like the prize of a gruesome struggle. Falling _in_ love with Jon felt like the foregone conclusion, the period one placed at the end of a sentence.

Being around Jon, being _with_ Jon, made him feel like everything was going to be okay, like everything _was_ okay. The supernatural world felt a little less awful, a little less inescapably evil, because Jon existed in it.

“ _Delinquent!”_ Gerry howled, then dissolved into laughter, the way he never thought he could.

“To be fair,” Jon said, rolling over and draping himself over Gerry’s chest. Gerry tried very hard not smile like an idiot at the warm weight of his partner, at the sheer joy he felt at the way Jon’s eyes crinkled at the edges. “I am wearing a fussy little sweater vest, and _you_ have eyeliner on.”

(He Knows that if Jon keeps smiling like that, in ten years the crinkles at Jon’s eyes will turn into laugh lines. They will be overwhelmingly charming and Gerry will love them just as he loves the rest of Jon.)

He doesn’t say that, though. Instead he wraps his arms around Jon’s shoulders and tugs him close, pressing their lips firmly together. Jon smiled, and their teeth clacked together awkwardly, but Gerry was weak to that smile, so it was okay.

He tucked Jon’s hair behind his ear, smiling at the dazed look in his eyes. “I like seeing you like this,” he commented idly.

“Like what?”

Gerry laughed, then carefully cupped the back of Jon’s head and flipped them over so their positions were reversed. Jon stared up at Gerry, rich brown eyes wide, lips parted.

_Gorgeous,_ Gerry thought, then pressed a kiss to Jon’s mouth, then his jaw, then the underside of his chin. “I like seeing you lose control,” he whispered into the junction between neck and shoulder.

“G-Gerry,” Jon gasped out, and Gerry smiled at the sound of his name on Jon’s lips. But then a cold, clammy hand wrapped around his wrist, and he froze, suddenly realizing that something was wrong. “Stop.”

Gerry immediately pulled away, frowning in confusion. Cold dread pooled in his stomach at the sheer terror on Jon’s face, the wide-eyed fear. “Jon?”

Jon pulled away, putting space between them, pushing anxiously at his hair.

_Did I do something wrong?_ It took everything Gerry had to keep outwardly calm _._ He ran over the past few minutes in his head, trying to figure out what he’d done, why it’d gone wrong so quickly. They’d - Gerry had never kissed Jon’s neck before, maybe he’d accidentally triggered a bad memory - ?

Then Jon extended his arms, a quietly pleading gesture, and Gerry was so relieved that he was almost dizzy at it. He let out a shaky sigh and folded himself into Jon’s space, slotting them neatly together.

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispered.

“Don’t apologize,” Gerry responded immediately. Whatever it was that’d caused such a negative reaction, Jon should never apologize for it. Gerry had enough of his own issues to reproach Jon for his.

“No, Gerry,” Jon scrubbed his hand over his face. “I need to—talk to you about something, I should’ve said something earlier.”

Gerry didn’t really understand the ensuing conversation; what he _did_ understand was that he loved Jon, _had_ loved Jon for a long time, and sex had never factored into it.

So, yes.

Gerry loved Jon, and that was all there was to it.


End file.
